


You Found Me

by FlourishBelle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:02:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1336396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlourishBelle/pseuds/FlourishBelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt "found their number in a library book" but slightly, and then majorly, altered. When Lestrade is the most desperate for something new to happen in his life, he never expected that Mycroft Holmes would find it in the pages of his favorite book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freedoms Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> So, I usually don't have the attention span to write multiple-chapter pieces but I am really excited about this one. My goal is to post a new chapter every Sunday. I would appreciate feedback to let me know what you think!
> 
> Also: The title may/needs to change so keep an eye out for that/ if you have any ideas, let me know! :)

The box sat innocuously at the top of the stairs. It was a plan cardboard box and somehow, Greg Lestrade thought, it seemed like the vessel of his betrayal. It was not in his nature to get so attached - maybe it came with the ever-shifting nature of his work with New Scotland Yard - but now as he looked at the box full of books, something tugged at his heart. They were all old books from uni and something in him wished that he could go back to the raucous nights, football games, and frequent trips to the bar. Yet those days, were long gone and Greg was not a man who often yearned for the past. He was logical, and well-adjusted given the circumstances. Life moved forward, and so did he.

On his way out the door, he picked up the box at the top of the stairs and carried it out the door on his way to work. He thought about his mates, happily married with kids by now and wandered down the road with his box. He’d been to Mark’s wedding years ago. He became a pretty successful writer after a while, married Jennie after eights years of being together, and now they have three beautiful children. Just got a Christmas card, in fact. He wondered about their life and his own. Most of his life was spent at the beckon call of a sociopath and his sidekick, working for New Scotland Yard and waiting for something to happen.

Penny was now God-knows where, doing God-knows-what and wondering only opened new wounds. Not dwelling on the past and all that. Bullshit. They had been together since college, back when getting together with a pretty girl was the obvious ticket to any kind of normal future. He’d never felt compelled to marry her particularly, but in some way he loved her and when she gave the ultimatum he chose what any smart bloke would. Marry her or spend forever alone? Easy. There was always something in him that had wanted something more. Something that didn’t quite fit, and in his quest to make his family proud of him he found himself becoming more and more numb with each passing day. Even still he’d tried to make her happy. She complained that he was too married to his work. Maybe that’s why she’d turned to other blokes for attention, he thought bitterly.

St. Andrew’s came up, large and lovely on his left. They had a community yard sale every month and someone was bound to find something they wanted in his box full of rejected books. Well, that felt unfair. After years of looking at the same stuff in the same flat that he and Penny’d shared for years, it was time for a change. He edged out the old in hopes of making room for something new to fill the gaps.

There was one relic, however, that he would always keep. A worn down, dog-eared, written-in, drawn-on, ripped-up copy of The Great Gatsby lived happily on the bookshelf he treasured in his small flat. It was a souvenir of all of the afternoons he’d spent in his university library trying to find that missing piece in the pages of a novel. No one would really peg him for a reader these days, but back then, he’d read anything he could get his hands on. While he lived and began to understand someone’s life and watch their problems get solved, their freedoms found, he could ignore his own. The restlessness grew as he turned the other way.

This copy of The Great Gatsby was one that he found in a gas station on his drive home after graduation. It was the book that he had checked out of the library the most, relishing in and identifying with the emptiness and obsession that Gatsby had with the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He stood there watching it, wanting that life so badly, in the way that Greg desired a life where he was fulfilled, satisfied, and happy.

The large cathedral and smell of stone and earth reminded him of the parish he had attended as a kid. The old parish priest there had seemed an unreachable old dinosaur, unlike Father Casey whose contemporary and progressive sermons had the youth of Lestrade’s neighborhood coming in droves on Sunday. Like many things in his life, his faith had gotten lost somewhere along the way. He wondered, fleetingly, if it would ever come back.

Father Casey sat in the first row in front of the altar, flipping through a worn, leather bible.

“Father?” The man looked startled for a moment before recognition crossed his features.

“Greg! It is good to see you again! To what do I owe the pleasure?” He gestured to the cardboard box.

“A box full of memories for the tip but I figured I’d bring em here for the yard sale instead.”

“Oh it is much appreciated, Greg, thank you,” He took the box and looked up at Greg again cryptically, and after a moment recited, “Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you. Deuteronomy 31:6”

“Father?”

“You will not always be alone Greg. Be strong in this time, knowing that until you find someone to spend your life with, who will be truthful and faithful to only you, God will stand by you. He will not leave you.” It is always surprising to hear someone read you out loud, to know that how you hurt is finally understood by someone else. It’s surprising, comforting, and just a little terrifying. Greg could only nod.

“Thank you Father, I will remember that.” He shook his hand, walking out of the church, unknowingly leaving his beloved Gatsby behind.


	2. Diamonds in the Rough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it's not Sunday but I was excited! Any titles/chapter ideas would be much appreciated as are likes and comments. Thank you, as always, for reading!

“I remember when you weren’t always this petulant, Sherlock. Funny that you should act like less of a child when you were one.”

“I’m not the one acting like a child. Why don’t you find someone else to play with Mycroft and stop _following me around_! I can take care of myself.”

“When you stop putting your life in jeopardy, maybe I’ll no longer be forced to concern myself.”

“Oh, yes. Ever so dramatic. Always enjoy your visits, brother dear. Now go find a shiny new toy - or are you afraid that _he’ll reject you too?_ ”He’d finally done it. He’d finally gone too far. It was like something in him finally gave. Mycroft remembered the countless rejections, and sense of isolation when he was young. Sherlock, being as he was, seemed the only person who could really understand what it was like to be so different. When he started into his teen years however, he got to be more difficult, more resentful - and it never seemed to wear off.

He finally turned from the window, smiled and nodded curtly to both a fuming Sherlock and wide-eyed John and left the flat without another word. Maybe his brother would finally understand his need for the brotherly intervention once he was scared into thinking that it had disappeared for good. Mycroft smiled as he heard John’s scolding before he left the small foyer. If Sherlock would listen to anyone it would be the army vet.

The window of the sleek black car rolled down as Mycroft realized how long he’d been standing outside, thinking. “Would you like to head back, sir?” Anthea, inquired.There was nothing he wanted to do less than sit in the silence of the vehicle, stewing in his own thoughts. Only his office seemed less appealing. Strange, given the comfort he used found in it. He declined her offer. “Thank you, though” he nodded, “Oh, you will keep me informed, of course, on our current situation. I won’t be long, I assure you.” She smiled, seeming to understand on some level, and the car drove off. He then began to wander.

Down some streets, and up others. Past shops, schools, cafes, couples, children, dogs. These other people, these goldfish, seemed to blissfully unaware. There was a constant thrum of danger that lived just beneath the tame, fragile surface, the illusion of domesticity and it seemed that he constantly lived with feeling it. So did Sherlock, so did John.

“When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield” he’d told John in the very beginning. An offer, an out that he didn’t take. Once you know what lurks, there’s no ignoring it. Once you know the adrenaline, there’s no turning back. Mycroft walked past a young handsome couple at a table just outside a cafe. The two young men, smiled and laughed, enjoying one another’s company. What would a life lived for himself have really looked like? Would he have had the same kind of easy connection with someone? Would it have satisfied the seemingly unquenchable thirst for company? That kind of life seemed unreal to him. It seemed the product of daydreams and he pushed it from his mind until it would, inevitably, crop up again.

He wondered about heading back when he saw the large stone church coming up on his right. Not a particularly religious man, Mycroft would have kept on if he hadn’t been taken with the yard sale in the churchyard. Old lamps and chairs sat by tables of clothes and shoes, and children’s toys were set out next to large boxes full of books. Parishioners and their children milled around, looking at and purchasing things and the little event was the kind of life that Mycroft needed, even if he had want for nothing second-hand.

He tried to remember the last time that he had sat down and enjoyed a book as he ran a hand down their spines. Old crime dramas slept beside romance novels and Nancy Drews. He recognized some of the courtroom classics that his father used to read and a few cookbooks that his mother would have loved. There was nothing there that would have suited Sherlock and something, certainly juvenile, in him smiled. He was swept up in the dusty titled and searched for a while when he found it.

Down deep in one box was a worn and faded, well-loved copy of _The Great Gatsby_. It was clear that someone loved it, obvious from the many creases in the spine; signs of multiple and frequent readings. The cover was soft and it’s edges were worn from transportation, the owner must have taken it everywhere. He flipped through the pages and was shocked by the literary graffiti that was to him a goldmine of information about the previous owner. Notes were scribbled in the margins, passages were highlighted in many different colors, circled and starred. It was a wealth of information, and in one instant Mycroft realized that he couldn’t leave without it.


	3. Connections Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm so sorry that it has been so long since I've updated this story. I got to a point where I hit a wall with it. I have always really loved the premise of it and have wanted to do it justice when I finally picked it back up. I think I have finally found the right direction for it! I apologize again for the long wait. You guys rock! 
> 
> This is a short chapter, but it's a good linking one for what's to come. Thanks for hanging in there!

It was nearly two weeks later before Greg realized it was gone. He hadn’t bothered looking round the flat for the old book. Gatsby was only ever in one of four places and when it wasn’t sitting by his chair, on his bookshelf, by his bed, or in his hand, he realized that it was gone. However as the DI put together the pieces of this more personal disappearance, those same familiar, faded pages passed beneath the fingers of a certain government official.  
Mycroft sat with Gatsby in his office, holding the book in one hand, absolutely absorbed. As he had read the story many times before in his childhood, he was more able to focus on the beautiful complexity of the young male owner, who was revealing himself through his notes. He’d put together a timeline of sorts, based purely on the ink and handwriting. It had been notated over a period of years, during which the young man had experienced many things, his changing handwriting was only one result.  
The first read-through, done in pencil, had simple underlines with few written notes. They marked flowery language, descriptions and important plot points, the work of a high school student, Mycroft figured. As Nick Carraway first visited Daisy across the bay, learned of her husband’s lover as they hid in New York, as Nick finally met the elusive Gatsby, Mycroft felt as if he and his note-taker experienced these things together. It was the feeling of a one-sided bond through the book that nearly scared Mycroft away, but it was the beating of his heart that kept him reading. Between diplomatic meetings, and visits to 221B, Mycroft’s nose was in the book, putting together the pieces of another man’s life.  
The more sophomoric of the notes, written in the blue ink of a ballpoint pen, were of another reading, perhaps in college. It showed the note-taker maturing and evolving. These notes centered on romance, including those quotes about both joy and pain. It was at the end of chapter six that the notes confirmed what his quick deductions had already told him. In blue ink, the note-taker underlined, “Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.” It was then starred, and the top corner was creased as if once dogeared. Yet on the page before, the most recent round of notes emerged. The underlines here were in black ink. Straight, black lines that left deep wells in the page, as if done in one bold stroke, out of a similarly bold emotion. He felt the pain in those lines even before reading the passage.  
“He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps that had gone into loving Daisy. His life has been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was…” The note-taker knew the pain of the past, of misplacing something essential in someone else. He had done it, and had been badly burned.  
His cell phone’s tinny ring jarred him from his thoughts.  
“Yes?” He sighed. It seemed that not a day passed when he wouldn’t have to clean up after his younger brother. “I’ll be there in a moment.” 

Not long after, Mycroft was in his usual black limo headed across town, a put-upon sigh clear in his expression. The scene outside of the college was packed with ambulances and flashing police lights, cleaning up the scene and causing more of a general annoyance than anything. Mycroft had the driver park off to the side, where he could remain uninvolved until the moment struck that he could talk to his brother alone. It would figure that, once again, Sherlock had put himself directly in the line of fire to chase down the answers he sought. There was no mystery that he could stand leaving unsolved. Another form of control he could have over his life, perhaps another attempt at further proof that he could take care of himself. Or, and Mycroft knew this was the actual answer, he was still chasing the high.  
As much as his younger brother liked to parade around in his long jacket and play the impenetrable dark crusader, he was fallible. This was evident in the nights he had spent curled on his side sweating and shaking, waiting for Mycroft to come to his rescue, read his list, and save his life. At the end of the day, he was an addict chasing the high he needed, the only one he could find outside the needle and rolling papers.  
The elder Holmes watched as Sherlock was sat beneath an orange shock blanket in the back of an ambulance, and snickered. There’s no way he could be cooperating. From the surveillance cameras posted outside the building, Mycroft could clearly see someone walked up to Sherlock, and despite the gray hair, he appeared quite young. He knew from the research that this was Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of New Scotland Yard, but the research never told him just how dishy he was in person. He seemed just as exhausted and exasperated by his brother’s belligerence as everyone inevitably was. And yet somehow, it seemed charming on him. This was a man who had seen Sherlock in the grips of addiction, and yet still cared deeply for him. As Sherlock and Dr. Watson approached the car a few minutes later, he noted to himself to explore this further in the future and turned to his older sibling duties.  
Across the lot, Lestrade couldn’t help but snicker at the way Sherlock’s long coat billowed behind him and he and John Watson walked off. He always was a sucker for the dramatic. He watched as they passed a dark car, speaking to a tall figure leaning against it. It was the first time he’d noticed Mycroft Holmes, but certainly wouldn’t be the last.

He felt like a man obsessed. In between meetings, in short trips in the car, as he sat in the quiet of the Diogenes Club, the well-worn book was in his hand. Now, Mycroft ran his fingers along a page in the book, feeling the indentations beneath them. Markings that meant so much, each of them their own character in a painfully forged language which he felt he understood. He’d gathered so much from these notes about their author. So much so that he’d become transfixed, fascinated, mesmerized by the man who’d once owned it. He felt as though he’d watched someone grow up before his very eyes. It was still the eldest version of the author that captured his attention the most.  
He looked through his glasses at the edge of his nose, considering the passages before him. Now home, and in bed it was somehow easier to imagine the mysterious reader before him, answering each of his questions in turn. His desire to meet the man behind the writing grew stronger with each day, as both Mycroft's deductions about his life, and understanding of his choices grew. There were even moments where he allowed his imagination to roam, creating a beautiful sensitive man, wanting only to be understood, and hiding out in the pages of the classic novel. He imagined the gentle touch of a man who was able to so flawlessly weave his painful experiences with some passages that he seemed to even find darkly funny. Someone who hid, and wondered, yearned, and hurt just like Mycroft did. 

~ 

Some time in late November, Mycroft waited in John Watson’s broken-in chair in 221B, for the duo to return. In the silent stillness of the flat around him, it was almost possible to believe that it long been uninhabited, ignorant to the energy flowing through London’s veins in each moment. He waited to check in with his brother, to watch the subtle glances and gestures that spoke of the growing, unmentioned presence between Sherlock and John, to feel the comfort of being around other people. While Mycroft had began to carry around his treasured copy of Gatsby in his pocket, and therefore the imagined presence of his note-taker, he still sometimes needed the comfort of flesh and blood conversation. 

He’d begun reading through the book again, reading through Jordan Baker’s retelling of Daisy’s marriage to Tom, when he heard heavy footfall on the stairs. Mycroft immediately slid the book in the cushion beside him and sat straight to face whatever visitor had come. DI Lestrade emerged from the stairway, red-faced and winded.  
“Where is he?” Lestrade asked, clearly angry. 

“He’s not here. Neither of them are.” Lestrade deflated, and collapsed into Sherlock’s chair. 

“I could kill him! Phones me about an intruder in the flat, and I come running like a bloody idiot. Shoulda known.” Mycroft regards him curiously. 

“That would be me he called out about,” Mycroft conceded, putting the pieces together. “My brother is not overly fond of my visits, but I hardly thought he’d stoop to this level.” 

“You’re Mycroft Holmes.” The thought seemed to finally dawn on Lestrade, his anger waning, and blatant interest spreading across his handsome features. 

“I am. I’ll take it Sherlock’s mentioned me a few times.” 

“He has, but I must say you have a few less heads, and don’t at all seem one to breath fire. I’m disappointed.” Mycroft laughed in spite of himself. 

“Yes, I elected to get rid of them when I had to buy a movie ticket for each one. It’s cheaper this way.” They both laugh now. “Sherlock does tend to paint a rather awful picture of me.” 

“He tend to do that to those who are just trying to take care of him.” It was clear in that moment, that he’d felt the heat of Sherlock’s temper but still cared for him deep down. He’d remembered watching the change in Sherlock when he had started working on cases with New Scotland Yard in his twenties. Being able to use his mind for constructive purposes temporarily saved him from near self-destruction. It was then John Watson who seemed to pull him for good from the darkness that threatened his brother’s well-being and his very life. If not for Lestrade and Watson, he may have been lost altogether. 

“I understand that he is difficult to look after. This is something that I must thank you for Inspector. If not for you, I fear the very worst would have happened to Sherlock.” Lestrade seemed surprised by the confession, but genuinely appreciative of it. His humility waved it away. 

“I couldn’t very well leave him the way he was. Even still, through all of the temper tantrums and attitude problems, he’s become an asset to us.” A comfortable quiet settled over them both, and Mycroft slipped Gatsby from his hiding spot to tuck it back in his coat. 

“Bit of light reading, huh?” Lestrade smiled, conversationally. 

“Yeah, something I’ve picked up lately and can’t seem to put it down.” 

“What is it?” Both the detective and the government looked toward the doorway when they heard two pairs of shoes on the steps.


	4. The Calm Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it's been a long time since I've posted but I'm so glad you're here! I've found my groove again with this story and am expecting a few more chapters. Thank you so much for your comments, and for reading.

The holiday season came and went with, of course, it’s fair share of scandal. Sherlock’s entanglement with Irene Adler caused tension between the major players, as John Watson’s preoccupation with the consulting detective chased away yet another girlfriend. From afar, Mycroft knew it was for the best. Someday they’d have to come round to the elephant in the room instead of resolutely and stubbornly ignoring it.  
As for Mycroft, meetings with Lestrade had become a more common occurrence after their afternoon at 221B. When Sherlock had found himself in Dartmoor on the trail of the Hound of Baskerville, Mycroft saw it fit to call in the Detective Inspector to find out what he was up to. Between their efforts both physical and remote, Sherlock escaped another situation with his head and they could both breathe easier for a moment.  
Once he knew that they’d all arrived back in London and before he could talk himself out of it, Mycroft picked up his phone and rang Lestrade.  
“I understand that I interrupted your holiday, and I would like to thank you for what you’ve done.” Greg smiled and scrambled for words for a moment. Was it really just a simple thank you? Every instinct he had told him otherwise.  
“It’s certainly not necessary, but I’ll accept it all the same.” There was no way Mycroft could mistake the smirk in Lestrade’s voice and the warmth spreading through him.  
“Excellent. I thought I’d have to kidnap you.” They both laughed comfortably.  
“I’ve heard that’s your M.O. I’m glad it wasn’t necessary this time.”  
“I’ll send a car for you tomorrow night if you are free.”  
“I am capable of taking the tube, you know.”  
“Barbaric.” A warm laugh.  
“Tomorrow it is, Mycroft.”  
“I’m looking forward to it.” And despite everything in his training that told him not to get attached, here he was. The connection’s warmth was alluring and sweet, and he was suddenly helpless to follow it wherever it may lead. 

 

The following evening, the car pulled up outside Lestrade’s flat at 7 just as promised. He’d somehow successfully avoided Sherlock that day, convinced that he would know that he was seeing his brother later, from the way his shoe was tied, or something as similarly ridiculous. Why should he even care if Sherlock knew, he wondered. It’s not like it was a date. Or was it? Truth be told, he wasn’t sure.  
It certainly seemed that there was at least mutual....interest after their first meeting. Some kind of desire to better understand the other, not excluding any other types of desire there may or may not be.  
He remembered the early days of his involvement with Penny in university. It was the silly courting of late adolescents trying to figure out where they were headed in life. She was smart and beautiful, constantly challenging Greg and inspiring him to be better, and push himself further. His family had expected him to meet and marry a beautiful woman, and that is what he did. Their life followed the plan that had been laid out for him, and that had been enough for a while. Something fundamental was missing, and part of him knew it. And yet he was steadfast in his commitment to ignoring it. The work would help him ignore it, and this too worked for a short while. But you can only run from yourself for so long.  
He’d finally grown into his realizations about himself. No longer would he deny himself the things he wanted to do, the ways he wanted to spend his time, the people he wanted to spend it with. If this meant that his interest in Mycroft went a bit beyond professional interest, then so be it. In fact, the idea that this interest could be mutual gave him an exhilarating warmth that would last long after their evening had ended. 

In the end, they found that they had more in common besides Sherlock and his antics. That night, they talked for hours, first over dinner, then over coffee and dessert, then finally in a walk around Regents Park. In the space they had created together there was no Sherlock, no looming government, no wild criminals. They ended the evening at Greg’s doorstep, feeling out the moment and reveling in the buzz of an enjoyable evening. Electricity sparked in the space between them, yet neither were ready to break it. The unhurried promise of time seemed to stretch out before them, and they knew it would be all the sweeter for waiting.  
They sought out each other’s company more and more in the following weeks, whenever they could steal a few hours away from work. One of Greg’s new favorite hobbies was subjecting Mycroft to those aspects of life he’d never before experienced. They’d often walk around London as tourists would, at Greg’s insistence, taking in the city for what it was, what it had been, and what it could be. Though Mycroft often bemoaned such trivial adventures as going to see a movie or visiting the London Eye, their encounters were the highlight of his busy life.  
Friendship had grown between them, genuine and sweet. A level of trust had developed from certainly being on the same team of trying to wrangle Sherlock, but in the commonalities that existed between them. Mycroft’s line of work demanded his caution and deep mistrust in others but around Lestrade, he felt secure and was able to finally relax enough to enjoy himself. Besides being kind and considerate, it turned out that Lestrade had a sly sense of humor, was an excellent cook, and had an impressive knowledge of movies spanning a number of decades. For the first time in his life, Mycroft felt behind. His priorities had lain in the academic and political for longer than he could remember. Spending time with Lestrade was teaching him how to appreciate the world outside. For now, they sat in a cozy coffee shop towards the back as the clouds outside threatened rain. A tiramisu and two espressos sat between them.

“Tell me Mycroft, who waits for you at home?” The question seemed so utterly out of the blue that it took him off guard for a moment. He thought it’d been obvious all this time.  
“Obvious? You’d never mentioned, and I’d never pried.” Lestrade protested. “And you didn’t answer my question.”  
“There is no one waiting for me at home, Gregory. Though sometimes I wish there were, I know that what I do wouldn’t be easy for anyone.” Greg turned this over in mind a few times, choosing his next words carefully.  
“Maybe you just haven’t found the right...person. Yet. What are you even looking for in someone?” Mycroft thought immediately of the book in his coat pocket. There was someone, they were just probably married with children by now.  
“Can I trust you with something, Gregory?” Lestrade was fully interested now.  
“Of course.”  
“About a year ago, I found this book at a jumble sale at a church nearby. There are notes all through it, different sets from different times in this man’s life. It sounds strange, but I almost feel like I know him. He’s changed so much throughout his life, and I wish I could ask him about it. In all he experiences, he always comes back to this book. He’s fascinating to me, so full of life. I just want to know him.” Breathless, Greg thinks about his copy of Gatsby, still missing from his shelf. It clicks all at once. He’s frozen like a deer in the headlights, almost certain that at any moment Mycroft will realize that it’s him.  
“What, um,” he clears his throat, nearly unable to form the words, “What book is it?” Mycroft reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a small, worn copy of The Great Gatsby, handing it to Greg.  
“It feels foolish to be so involved in notes from a stranger, but here I am.”  
Lestrade didn’t hear these words as he turned the book over in his hands, marveling at the familiar weight in his palms, the feel of his own writing beneath his fingertips, reading the words he nearly knew by heart. Then, he remembered what Mycroft what just said and plummeted back into the moment. He knew what had been building within him for Mycroft these past few months, but he wasn’t ready to admit to him that it was his book. He wasn’t ready to see that familiar look of disappointment that Penny had given him the night before she left. What if Mycroft had pictured the notetaker differently? What if Lestrade wasn’t what he’d hoped for? He couldn’t handle seeing that look from Mycroft and found his admission frozen to his tongue. He couldn’t tell him yet, at least. Clearing his throat, he regained his composure.  
“Someone really loved it.” He said quietly.  
“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. The following silence hung as heavy over them both as the storm clouds overhead. As they left the cafe, raindrops began to fall and they shared the space beneath Mycroft’s cherished umbrella.  
“I wouldn’t give up hope that you’ll find your notetaker, just yet. He could be closer than you think.” Mycroft nodded and gave him a smile, this rare moment of vulnerability passing quietly like a rainstorm in the early spring. 

As the game unfurled, it seemed the ocean pulled from the shore and its eerie stillness was jarring enough to forget what would follow. It began with the break-ins.  
To this day, Lestrade will quietly accept his responsibility for not seeing it. Moriarty broke into Pentonville, the Bank of England, and the Tower of London in one fell swoop, and presented himself to the police on a silver platter. He should have seen that it was too easy because it was. He should have known that nothing involving Sherlock is ever what it seems. Coincidence would be laziness. And yet, he played right into the madman’s hands.  
Of course, the trial came and went with the most shocking verdict of not guilty that the country had ever seen. His guilt was obvious, his crimes detestable, his demeanor smug. It should have been an easy one, but that wasn’t the point. Playing a pawn in the game between Sherlock and Moriarty was a humbling and humiliating experience. While he would never have the deductive gifts that Holmes wielded, Greg Lestrade considered himself a good detective. There was a reason for his promotion to the rank of Detective Inspector. Then again, it was through hard work and determination that he reached his status. There were perhaps no miraculous gifts he held, but he was ingrained with a work ethic that matched his dedication to the force. For many years, this was enough.  
When the ambassador’s children were abducted, he should have listened to Sherlock and seen what was really happening. But how would he have known? This was a different level, an entirely different playing field than he functioned on. He didn’t see it because he wasn’t supposed to. It was while unknowingly playing the part built for him, that Lestrade put Sherlock under arrest, or attempted to anyway.  
For all those years that Lestrade had spent looking out for Sherlock, giving him cases to make sure he wasn’t using again, watching the situation unfurl felt nothing short of surreal. It wasn’t the sharp sting of betrayal that he’d expected to feel, but instead the guilt that came with realizing that his protection would no longer suffice. Sherlock was in over his head now, and there was nothing that Lestrade could do to save him from what was coming.  
Multiple times, he’d tried to contact Mycroft and got nothing in return.  
_Tell me what’s happening. Is this all real?_  
_I have no choice but to arrest him._  
_I don’t know what to do._  
_Please, Mycroft._  
He wasn’t sure what hurt worse. Learning of Sherlock’s supposed deception or watching his warming relationship with Mycroft completely cool to frozen. The hope he’d had in his heart turned to a cold stone. Each day that passed without communication found his chest growing heavier until he wasn’t sure he’d be able to breathe any longer. While he missed the light that Mycroft had given him, the work was enough to keep him constantly moving, and therefore constantly running from pain-infected silence.


End file.
